In Zummerzet, oi’m tellin’ ‘ee
Ther grows yon zoider-apple tree
De yokels ‘ere don’t drink champagne
Fer zoider’s ‘ow we made ar name
Now, zoider’s rough, oi’ll grant thee, true
Not loike them zofties’ posh shampoo
We ‘ave no toime fer quaffing woine
When spreadin’ muck an’ tendin’ swoine
We ‘ave t’ grab ar daily grub
In twen’y minutes, in the pub
A gert big zoider, if you please
A ploughman’s lunch of ‘am ‘n’ cheese
Then back to workin’ on de varm
A li’le groind don’t do thee ‘arm
An’ varmer Joe’ll zee thee roight
Another zoider, Froidee noight!
(Translation: (Doesn’t rhyme!)
In Somerset, I’m telling you
Grows the cider-apple tree
The country people don’t drink champagne
For cider is how we made our name
Now, cider is rough, I agree
Unlike the champagne that posh people drink
We don’t have time for drinking wine
When we are spreading manure and tending pigs
We have to get our lunch
In twenty minutes, in the the pub
A larger cider, please
And ham, cheese, bread and salad
Then back to working on the farm
A bit of work won’t harm you
Farmer Joe will be fair to you
Another cider on Friday night)
